


Stillness

by SylvanWitch



Series: Seasons [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-24
Updated: 2012-08-24
Packaged: 2017-11-12 18:47:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/494474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SylvanWitch/pseuds/SylvanWitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part two of the <i>Seasons</i> series, this one is dedicated to Winter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stillness

Precise blue lines cut the snow all around them as the late afternoon sun dips lower on the horizon.

 

The shadows of tree trunks, branches stripped stark and bare, seem like obstacles to their snow-dazzled eyes, and they stumble a little on the path, snow drifted deep as mid-thigh on Dean.  Without a word, Sam reaches over, snags the duffle from his brother’s shoulder, and carries the weight himself. 

 

Dean shrugs his thanks, head down, hands in his pockets.  His breath for bitching ran out about a mile ago, and now he’s focused on one idea—getting to the car, turning her over— _please, baby, please start for daddy_ —and cranking the heater.

 

It hadn’t been snowing that hard when they’d followed the were into the trees the night before.  In fact, the gentle flakes floating down had been sort of pretty, especially when the full moon broke through the cloud cover to set each flake on cold fire, like somewhere a star was shivering to pieces in the frozen night sky.

 

They’d wounded the thing, winged it, and had to track it, driving it from one dangerous corner to the next until Dean’d finally gotten a clean shot.  Then there came the burning, probably unnecessary out there in the middle of god’s own back-acre, but by then it had been a lot colder, the wind having come up, blowing the snow in horizontal curtains across their lines of sight.  They’d huddled around the flaming body despite the stink, grateful for what heat it gave to their cold hands.

 

Now, Dean almost wishes he could be back there, basking in the fetid warmth of that hellish fire.  His jaw is clenched so tightly to keep his teeth from chattering that he thinks he can hear his molars cracking.  He has no idea how far it is to the car—he’d lost all sense of direction about three miles ago, when he’d fallen down for the third freakin’ time and had had to be helped out of a drift by his abominable Sammy.

 

“Dean,” Sam says, and Dean looks up from watching his boots punch holes in the snow, searching the ground ahead for some impediment.  For at least two miles, their only talk has been of downed trees and deep drifts.

 

But he can’t see anything to warrant Sam’s concern, so Dean turns his head just enough to catch a glimpse of his brother’s wind-reddened face.

 

Sam’s stopped beneath an enormous oak tree, in a place where the tree’s immense girth has kept the snow from piling high.  Dean can see the thinnest layer of snow dusting the ground, and he understands at once Sam’s idea—rest.  Up all night, on the chase for much of it, neither of them is at the top of his game, and the cold has been taking it out of them, that and the effort of lifting their legs through the heavy snow.

 

Dean cuts a path through the snow to where Sam is leaning back against the trunk, and though he’d usually object to the gesture, this time when Sam opens his arms, Dean thinks of nothing more than that he might be a little warmer up close to the furnace of his brother’s body.

 

Sam’s always run hot, a fact that usually earns his younger brother nothing but snide comments at night in shared beds at a hundred thousand motels along the long road they call home.

 

Dean hasn’t got a word to say this time.  He snugs his wind-raw hands in under Sam’s arms and lets his brother wrap him in a bear hug.  There’s a moment of adjustment as his numb face comes in contact with the snow-damp fabric of his brother’s jacket, and then there’s nothing but contentment purring up from his chest, so strong he has to clench his teeth for a different reason or risk never hearing the end of it.

 

Sam slips his own hands into Dean’s jeans pockets and breathes a warm kiss over Dean’s temple.

 

“Okay?”

 

“Mmm-hmm,” Dean affirms, not moving.  Then, “You?”

 

“Now.”

 

They stay like that for awhile, until the frozen cuffs of their jeans start to thaw enough to make the tops of their socks wet, and Dean starts to shift restlessly.  The car’s still a distant dream, but it’s better than being stuck out in the woods in a blizzard, and they’re only delaying the inevitable hike that’s ahead.

 

But Sam has other ideas than to let Dean go, and when his brother leans back to squirm out of Sam’s arms, Sam slides his hands up Dean’s back and tightens his grip just enough to make Dean pause, look up, give Sam an eyebrow of inquiry.

 

Sam, naturally, takes advantage by swamping his brother’s cold lips with the heat of his mouth, and really, that’s just not fair, because he can’t resist Sam’s kisses on a good day, much less when it’s the hottest thing in a six mile radius, and Dean means that literally.

 

As Sam’s tongue takes up residence in Dean’s mouth, Dean lets out a little groan and swallows a shiver that has nothing to do with the temperature and everything to do with the brush of his brother’s hardness against his answering own.

 

Dean lets himself be pulled closer to his brother, moans again as Sam slouches a little to line them up better, and hisses as the sweet friction of denim-over-ache makes him dizzy with desire.

 

“Sam,” he breathes, not really a question, and Sam just says, “Shhhh” and rocks again, eliciting another sound from Dean, this one strangled as Sam’s tongue plunges particularly deep, lewd counterpoint to his thrusting.

 

Dean’s hands to this point have been tucked up under Sam’s outstretched arms, but he gets his revenge for his little brother’s pushiness now, sliding them beneath Sam’s jacket hem and searching out the flesh he knows he’ll find if only he can burrow under the tails of Sam’s layered shirts.

 

Nothing if not brothers and not to be outdone, Sam slides one hand away from Dean’s back and smooths it down the front of his jeans, seeking beneath the waistband, beneath the cotton boxers, until his cold, cold fingers wrap around the hottest part of Dean’s body.

 

Dean abandons his delving of Sam’s crack to gasp and shudder against his brother’s throat.

 

“Sam,” he manages, his voice a rough wreck, and Sam starts to jerk him off, rough and uncareful, confined as he is by the denim of Dean’s still-fastened jeans.  Dean licks his way up Sam’s neck, nuzzles aside the collar of Sam’s jacket, buries his cold nose in behind Sam’s ear, and bites down on the corded muscle that joins there.

 

Sam gasps, hips pistoning against Dean’s hip, and the motion of his hand stutters until Dean grunts out a string of curses and Sam speeds up once more.

 

Dean sucks a deep mark into his brother’s neck and whispers something filthy to Sam, whose motions in response only increase in speed.

 

As Dean tenses and spills his hot seed over Sam’s hand, he says something else—something into the stillness of the winter’s afternoon, something that somehow carries only to Sam’s ear and that makes him shudder and choke back a cry as he lets go of his own control and comes without having been touched.

 

In the late winter afternoon, as the long shadows make their way across the snow, the stillness is broken by the brothers’ breathing as it evens out again and becomes steady.

 

Twin tracks, thin, trace lines down Sam’s face, and Dean licks them away, licks himself from Sam’s hand and shares the taste with a searing kiss that leaves Sam shattered like those star shards Dean saw last night.

 

And Dean thinks he might just love the winter after all.

 


End file.
